


Lost and Found

by fangirlandiknowit



Series: Spirk oneshots [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU where George Kirk lives and becomes an admiral, First Meetings, M/M, Mistaken Identity, PWP, and Jim is still a mess, chess as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlandiknowit/pseuds/fangirlandiknowit
Summary: Spock finds himself drawn to a stranger in a bar in the middle of a mission.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Series: Spirk oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022260
Comments: 30
Kudos: 273





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I just wanted to write some soft smut and couldn't stop thinking about what AOS Jim might be like if George survived. Maybe he'd be acting out to escape his dad's shadow. Maybe he'd meet Spock and decide that he was Spock's problem now. 
> 
> Without spoiling anything (hopefully), the real reason Spock doesn't recognize Jim is because he was described to him as Heterosexual and that's definitely not what he finds. Lol.

Spock resists the urge to sigh as he enters yet another seedy bar. His search has taken him to a number of these places already, and he is by now familiar with the smell and the general untidiness of the patrons. He sweeps his eyes over the cramped area, taking note of the few people that return his gaze, and the few who do not.

At the bar, a young Human man with bright pink hair slouches against the counter. The way he returns Spock’s look is unmistakably interested. Spock ignores him for another sweep of the area, and when there is no match, he returns his attention to the man. They are of approximately the same height, Spock’s complexion most likely sickly pale in the unforgiving light from low-hanging lightbulbs – a retro design decision, most likely a Human-owned bar – in comparison to the man’s more healthy golden glow.

If Spock were not on duty…

Even so, it won’t hurt to make an attempt at gathering information, and flirty Humans do enjoy gossiping. He makes his way over to the bar, close enough to the Human that he may approach, but not close enough to be interpreted as a clear invitation. He orders the first drink on the menu, merely to occupy his time and hands.

“Aren’t you a long way from home?” the man asks him, startlingly blue eyes trailing up and down his body.

“I am here on a mission with my ship,” he responds truthfully, not missing the way the man licks his lips before spreading them in a lazy grin. “As such, I do believe your statement is correct, if somewhat vague.”

The man ducks his head down and laughs quietly, as if truly finding Spock’s comment humorous. Then he tilts it, just enough to look up at Spock through his lashes. He is quite attractive, Spock thinks, and far too clean to belong to a place like this.

“Not shore leave, then? Though of course, this isn’t the best place for Starfleet officers to hang out unsupervised.”

“It is hardly a place for anyone to, as you say, ‘hang out’ unsupervised.”

“What’s your name?”

He considers the man, takes in the sloppily done dye job, the too big leather jacket. He seems at ease in his body, but there’s a wariness in the way his gaze flickers now and then towards the exit.

“Spock.”

“Nice name.”

The man takes a sip of his drink, still smiling at Spock. His side is against the counter, elbow resting on the sticky surface. The hand not holding his glass is shoved into a pocket, keeping the jacket just open enough to view the thin t-shirt hugging his chest. He is clearly aware of his assets, and Spock dismisses the notion that he is flattered at the attention.

He is, for all intents and purposes, on a mission. Perhaps there is no harm in looking, he thinks, though the garish hair color does somewhat lessen the effect of that smile.

“Thank you. May I have yours in turn?”

“Hmm. Nope. Considering you found me in a shitty bar like this on an even shittier planet, that shouldn’t really surprise you.”

“Perhaps not.” Spock tastes his drink, and finds it much too sweet. “One would suggest that providing a fake name is less suspicious than no name at all, however.”

Eyes twinkling with humor, the man raises his glass in a toast and chugs down what remains of it. His eagerness to return to the ship is diminishing. Although he cannot provide any clues to the whereabouts of one certain admiral’s son, his long day and even longer night might at least end in companionable conversation.

“Then what do you suggest? I’m not very fond of fake names, to be honest. And, more importantly…” He leans closer, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper. “I’ve found that the mystery of a nameless stranger gets people into bed much faster.”

“An interesting hypothesis.”

“Sure is.” The nameless stranger winks at him, and orders another drink. Spock supposes this is the moment he should politely but firmly dissuade any ideas the man has of persuading Spock to add to his statistics, however, he finds himself inexplicably eager to speak more with him. “I feel like I’ve heard of you somewhere. A Vulcan named Spock…”

As the man trails off into thoughtful silence, Spock raises an eyebrow. He is perhaps not unknown within the Federation, but he hardly believes he warrants recognition this far out on the edge of the neutral zone.

Snapping his fingers, the stranger gives him a knowing look.

“Now I remember.”

“Remember what?”

But the stranger only winks at him again, accepting his new drink from the bartender.

“So, Spock. You’re on a mission. Any chance I can help?”

Spock doubts he means actual help, judging by the way he cocks his hip out and runs a hand through his hair. Spock may not be an expert on Human social cues, but the man is obvious enough.

“I am looking for someone,” he says, folding his hands behind his back comfortably. “Although I am not at liberty to share the details with you, he does bear some resemblance in appearance with you.”

“Huh.” The man does not look surprised, but he does look rather amused. “I didn’t know Vulcans did pick-up lines.”

Frowning, Spock recounts his previous words.

“It was not meant as such. I _am_ looking for a Human male, though his hair is most certainly not pink.”

The man grimaces a bit, touching his hair with a hand as if self-conscious.

“Not my best color, is it? I had limited options.” He spends a few moments watching Spock, and Spock has to admit there is something quite alluring about this man. He seems rather genuine, for one, and certainly not unintelligent. “Alright, who is he, then? The guy you’re looking for.”

“I cannot share the details, as I previously said.”

“Mhm, well, that doesn’t sound like a very efficient way of looking for someone. How are you supposed to find him if you can’t ask around?”

While Spock agrees that it is an inefficient method, he is all too aware of how many people with harmful intentions might join the search.

“Supposedly, he is impossible to miss.”

He earns another bright laugh for that comment, though there is something rueful over the man’s expression.

“If you say so.” He draws in a breath, and throws a hand out, gesturing at nothing in particular. “Well, here I am.”

“You are,” Spock agrees, allowing confusion to color his words. “Although I fail to see the relevance of this statement, as we were not currently discussing your whereabouts.”

A multitude of emotion passes over the man’s face, too quick for Spock to interpret. He finally settles for narrowed eyes, and takes a bold step into Spock’s personal space.

“Aren’t Vulcans supposed to be highly intelligent?” he questions, and Spock is cold and tired and uninterested enough in the month-long chase with no end in sight that he has to take a breath to calm down. “I don’t mean that as an offense, I mean – Do you play chess?”

His aggravation gives way to confusion. Humans are, as he concluded long ago, entirely too susceptible to leaps in logic that somehow make sense only to them.

“I do,” he says, for lack of a better reply.

“Alright.” The man stays where he is, eyes searching Spock’s for a moment. “Then how about a match? If you win, I’ll tell you my real name.”

Spock does not point out that he does not need his name, nor is he supposed to spend his on-duty hours playing chess with strangers. Captain Pike will surely question him if he does not report at the agreed hour. However, nothing in the stranger’s suggestion indicates that Spock will miss his check-in, and surely a quick game of chess will not impede the mission at hand. Spock may just as well spend an hour in the bar, fruitlessly observing its patrons from his current vantage point, as spend it playing chess.

“Very well. And what do you propose as your own reward, should you win?”

At this, the man smiles widely.

“Well, Mister Spock, why don’t I attempt to defeat you and you’ll find out?”

Just as he seems reluctant to share his identity, he seems to enjoy withholding this information as well. Spock calculates his chances of winning to 95.3%, mainly because no Human has ever defeated him. It would have been a full hundred if he’d had a slight bit more information on the man. His eyes hold Spock’s for a long moment, and there is a tingle of what might be anticipation running up his spine. He suppresses it.

“If it is within my parameters to give it to you without legal or otherwise harmful consequences, I believe I can accept your terms.”

“It’s a deal.”

The man finishes his drink, motioning for Spock to do the same. As Spock has no need for refreshments at this time, nor can benefit from the effects that alcohol has on Humans, he merely pushes the glass aside.

“My room’s on the second floor,” his new acquaintance informs him, already backing up a few steps towards the stairs at the back. “I didn’t precisely take my chess set down to the bar with me.”

Spock nods, and remains in place. There is, again, something humorous in the man’s eyes.

“If I wasn’t clear enough, that was an invitation, Mister Spock.”

Unsure, Spock calculates the odds that the stranger has ill intentions, although he bears no doubt that he can overcome him if need be. Far more pressing is the issue of leaving the bar for somewhere more private, as this renders his flimsy excuse unusable. He can perhaps play chess in the bar, but to follow this man to his private quarters…

A true Vulcan would not agree. A Vulcan would not even hesitate on their decisions, but Spock leaves the bar counter and trails after the Human up a short flight of stairs and through a corridor, entering a room almost by the end.

There’s an unmade bed, barely big enough for one person, a small bedside table with a PADD on it, and a worn armchair with several darker spots. From under the bed he can glimpse a leather satchel. The door closes behind them, and the man pulls out the satchel and digs out a 3D chess set. Spock’s raised eyebrow is met with amusement, and soon enough the room is reorganized with the bedside table between the moved armchair and the bed. Gingerly, Spock sits in the armchair, facing his mystery opponent.

Even here, in a hotel room that leaves much to wish for, there is something striking about the other man. He’s humming to himself as he arranges the pieces on the board, his fingers deftly picking up each piece. Spock finds he’s staring at those hands as they move, and perhaps he should admit to himself that there is no logical reason for his presence in this room. The night is cold outside, and the fruitless search is wearing on him. What is the point of searching for someone who clearly does not wish to be found? It is not the first instance that Admiral Kirk’s son has left his planet behind. He always returns, and from the rumor mill, he returns without remorse.

This time, while he may have left of his own volition, there are several bands of rebel Kar’hut joining the search. Their planet is negotiating a treaty with the Federation, and the rebels seem desperate in their search for a bargaining chip to tip the negotiations in their favor. It will not succeed, of course, but the threat to the admiral’s son is real enough.

Spock, privately, suspects that Captain Pike has a soft spot for the ‘runaway troublemaker’ as he described him during their first mission brief. This stranger may bear some resemblance to the younger Kirk in height and eye color, but he had neither tried to run away at the sight of a Starfleet officer, nor had he been in the midst of flirting with women or involved in a bar fight. Surely he would at the very least have excused himself at the reveal of Spock’s identity, had he been the admiral’s son. He finds that he prefers that he didn’t.

“I’ll let you start,” the man says once the board is set, gesturing towards it with a smile.

“If you wish.”

They play in silence for some minutes. Spock’s eyes are focused on the game, and consequently, the hands that move the black pieces between levels. He can feel the other’s gaze on him, as he considers his next moves. He finds, after 15.3 minutes of playing, that he has yet to pinpoint a strategy in his opponent’s playing. He has lost two pawns, one knight a near thing. In turn, three black pawns and a rook sit by the board, defeated.

“You’re pretty good,” the man tells him, and Spock chances a glance at him, finds him biting his lower lip in thought. “It’s been a while since I played against another person.”

“Likewise,” Spock admits, averts his eyes as a pink tongue darts out to wet equally pink lips. “Although, I find little logic in some of your choices.”

It inspires a soft laugh, an even softer sigh.

“Only because you don’t have all the facts.”

“Which are?”

Their eyes meet, something electrically charged passing between them. Spock suppresses a shiver. He has 1.8 hours left before mandatory check-in. A slow grin spreads over his opponent’s face, lighting him up from within.

“That I don’t need logic to win.”

It is, Spock suspects, not the true answer to his question. The remaining rook is pushed two squares forward, threatening Spock’s bishop on the upper level. Anticipation swells within him. He wishes, simultaneously, to spend their game in silence and to hear more of that enticing voice. He quells the thought.

29.2 minutes later, Spock stares at the board in dismay as a triumphant _check mate_ is declared. By the time he had noticed the trap, it was too late. He had been distracted, finding no pattern, only to understand that perhaps the lack of a pattern is what allowed the other man to corner him so.

“Fascinating,” he comments, almost to himself. He has not lost a match since childhood against another person. “I concede the match in your favor.”

He tips over his king, considers asking for a re-match, when the other man leans forward to catch his gaze. The intent in his eyes sends a thrill down his spine.

“I’ve thought about my reward,” he says, and this time when he licks his lips it must be deliberate. “But I think I’ll like it better if you call me Jim.”

Surprised at the admission, Spock nods.

“Jim,” he says, testing the name on his tongue.

It seems appreciated, as Jim’s cheeks flush with blood.

“Okay,” Jim says. “Okay, I seriously need you to kiss me. Right now.”

He is less surprised by this. He calculates the distance between them, the makeshift table separating them. He straightens his pointer and middle finger of his right hand, folding the other three as he reaches for Jim around the chess board.

“A Vulcan kiss,” he clarifies, when Jim watches him in confusion.

While Jim does not seem fully convinced, he carefully mimics Spock’s gesture, pressing the pads of their fingers together. A spark is born at the touch, their minds connecting. Spock presses harder, swallows at the sting of pleasure looping through his arm and into his body. Jim’s mind is expressive, exuberant. He is full of life, and Spock’s katra reaches for him.

He separates them with a barely held back gasp.

“Wow,” Jim breathes, eyes wide as he flexes his hand. “What… what was that?”

Spock is… unsure. He has not had many partners, but he has never felt such a strong connection with anyone. Had his soul anticipated this? He reaches out again, Jim eagerly meeting him halfway. Their fingers come together as if familiar, and Spock trails his down the length of Jim’s, heart picking up speed as his throat tightens with arousal.

“As I said, a Vulcan kiss,” he manages to say, and Jim gives him a _look_ before rising from his seat, kicking his shoes off.

“Is it always so… intense?” he asks as he closes the distance between them, pausing in front of Spock.

“I cannot comment on the statistics.” Jim climbs onto his lap, pushing Spock back until his head rests against the armchair, looking up at him. “Perhaps we should test your theory.”

Jim’s grin is wicked, something white-hot curling in Spock’s gut. His hands find purchase over Jim’s sturdy hips, keeping him steady as he presses the fingers that moments ago kissed Spock’s against Spock’s lips instead. It’s indecent, by any Vulcan standard. But they are not in public, nor does Spock particularly care about propriety as this beautiful Human crowds him against his seat. He can hear his elevated heartbeat, his shallow breaths. He slips his hands under Jim’s shirt, feels his arousal seep into him through skin-on-skin contact.

“Is that my reward, or just a suggestion?” Jim asks playfully, his other hand rising to cup the back of Spock’s neck. His thumb finds the underside of Spock’s jaw, tilting his head further, fingertips sliding from his mouth to the hollow of his throat. “Either way, I think I’ll enjoy it.”

Rather than answer, Spock decides to slip the leather jacket off Jim’s shoulders. He’s not sure why he’d kept it on, as the room was certainly warm enough for a Human, if slightly too cold for him. The jacket lands on the floor, leaving Jim’s arms bare. Spock traces the skin, over his elbows, up to the edges of his t-shirt. He considers simply ripping the shirt apart, but he’s unsure if Jim will appreciate it.

“What are you thinking?” Jim murmurs, hands flat over Spock’s chest, bunching up his science blues as he rubs them up and down.

“I am thinking you should undress fully.”

Jim tilts his head in thought, but Spock can feel the thrum of anticipation, although he suspects some of it to be his own. Impatient, Spock tugs at Jim’s shirt, helping him get rid of it. It follows the jacket onto the floor, and Spock wastes no time leaning in to mouth at his exposed chest.

“I, ah, wasn’t sure you’d agree to more than chess,” Jim says, hands combing through Spock’s hair, urging him even closer.

Spock circles one nipple with his tongue, thumbing at the other. He wants to explore every patch of skin, wants to taste him, pleasure him. He feels Jim’s fluttering breath as his chest contracts and expands, listens to his moans as he worries the nub gently between teeth. Torn between taking his time and divesting Jim of the rest of his clothes as soon as possible, his hands find the small of Jim’s back to push him closer, leaning back to urge Jim’s mouth to cover his own.

The kiss is messy, tongues and teeth clashing, until it softens into something less hurried. Jim’s mind buzzes under his touch, and he keeps his hands firmly below shoulder-level. He has never felt such a need. He _needs_ Jim, needs him naked and writhing underneath him, needs him crying out as Spock enters him. Hungrily, he bites at Jim’s throat, drags his teeth over his pulse point and digs his nails into his spine. The armchair is not fit for their purposes, and he stands with Jim gathered in his arms, all but knocking the table over as he takes a few long strides in order to deposit Jim on the narrow bed.

“That’s hot,” Jim comments, breathless.

It’s an unnecessary comment, but Spock merely pulls his shirt and undershirt off, fingers gripping the buttons of his pants as Jim sits up and reaches for him, batting his hands away.

“Let me,” he orders, looking up at Spock with desire written all over his face.

Spock, of course, is helpless to obey. Soon his pants and regulation briefs are pushed down, his cock hardening fully. He steps out of them along with his shoes, Jim watching him intently, eyes roaming his now naked body. He’s certain Jim would use his mouth to pleasure him if he asked, but he finds he does not have the patience for it.

“Lie down,” he says, an order of his own.

As Jim does as told, he waves a hand at the bedside table, lips quirking up in yet another smile.

“There’s lube in the drawer,” he tells Spock, getting comfortable with a pillow behind his head. His jeans are tented, but he makes no move to take them off. “Dunno about condoms…”

When Spock opens the drawer, he finds a bottle of lube, and some chewing gum. He wonders how many nights Jim has stayed in this room. If he has shared it with a new person each night. No matter. He will have Jim tonight, and he will not think about his ship and his mission.

“Do you require the use of condoms?” he asks, placing the lube by Jim’s hip and settling over his thighs, stroking them over the fabric.

“Nah.” Jim catches his hands in his, their fingers entwining, drawing shudders of pleasure from Spock. “I’m fine if you are.”

Inadvisable, perhaps, but Spock would be able to tell if Jim was lying. Their hands travel up Jim’s thighs to his crotch, Spock rubbing the back of his knuckles along the outlined length. Jim releases a low moan, biting his lower lip for a moment before relaxing back into his pillow. As Spock dips his head down to suck a bruise into the soft skin below his navel, Jim fumbles with the button to his pants, giving up with a huff as Spock takes over. It’s quick work, but he takes his time pulling the fabric down Jim’s body, slowly revealing the bare skin of meaty thighs and knobby knees. The hairs covering his legs are soft and slightly curled, a very light brown in contrast to his brightly pink hair. He sits to one side as he slips each pant leg off, socks following.

“Jim,” he says, taking note of the light flush of Jim’s cheeks, the way he spreads his legs invitingly. “I wish to penetrate you.”

Jim chokes on a cough, blinking rapidly as he clears his throat. Spock does not understand his shock. Surely, he must have anticipated, _calculated_ , this outcome?

“Um, yeah. I mean, yes, _please_.”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock waits until Jim reaches for him again, easily sinking onto the bed once certain he is welcomed. They fumble a bit with logistics as Spock makes Jim turn to lie on his stomach, and then he eagerly palms the plump flesh of his ass cheeks. He’s beautiful, freckles dusting his shoulder blades, two dimples above his ass. Spock traces the knobs of his spine, up and down, continuing down to rub a gentle thumb over his anus. The hum of arousal strengthens under his touch, Spock already wet with precum. He catalogues each part of Jim, each noise he makes. His eidetic memory will serve its purpose for many nights to come, he believes.

“Come on, hurry up,” Jim whines at him, hugging the pillow and pushing his hips from the bed, into Spock’s touch.

Spock finds the bottle of lube and uncaps it, pouring some onto his fingers. It’s cold, but Jim doesn’t so much as flinch when Spock pushes a finger inside him. It slides in easily, the feel and pressure of Jim around him exquisite. He can pick up enough of Jim’s thoughts – more than he should – to add another soon after. His other hand rests over Jim’s hip, keeping a firm hold on him as he bucks into Spock’s touch.

Arousal, impatience, a vague sense of disbelief. As he allows Jim’s emotions to wash over him, he wonders if Jim, also, is surprised at the intensity of the moment. His gaze travels up Jim’s back, lingers on the side of his face. It would be a simple matter to reach forward, let his fingertips slide into place over his meld points. He tightens his grip on Jim’s hipbone instead. He cannot allow his desire to overcome his control.

Jim lets out a low groan at the addition of a third finger. It is perhaps not necessary, but Spock enjoys the sight of his fingers spreading Jim open. He could make a habit of it. The way Jim clenches around his sensitive fingers, how he slowly relaxes to accommodate him. More than that, the buzz of Jim’s mind is addicting.

Part of him already mourns the inevitable loss of him. Many Federation species enjoy brief sexual encounters, Humans more than most. Spock tells himself that his half-human side allows him to participate without repercussion, and so far he has succeeded. He fears that Jim will not leave his thoughts so easily.

“Spock,” Jim says, reaching back to wrap his fingers around Spock’s wrist. “You’d better fuck me now, or so help me.”

An illogical string of words, but Spock understands the impatience behind them. Wordlessly he retracts his fingers, reaches for the lube once again. Jim pulls his legs up underneath him, raising his hips until he’s kneeling before Spock, face still pressed into the pillow. He is unashamed in his search for pleasure. Spock finds himself in a hurry to provide it.

Once slick, Spock moves into position, hands caressing Jim’s thighs and back. His penis presses into Jim’s perineum, slides easily between his cheeks. He feels Jim exhale a shuddering breath, hears his heartbeat increase in anticipation. Jim’s mind is humming with it, urging Spock on. He wants to draw the moment out. Wants to stretch out the few precious minutes he’ll have with this enticing Human, basking in the allure of his katra.

“ _Seriously_ ,” Jim groans, and Spock might smile if he were less in control.

As it is, he merely lines himself up and slowly pushes into Jim, admiring how his body gives way to him. He has to pause for a moment, closing his eyes. Jim’s pleasure washes over him, insistently, breaking through his shields. There is madness in pleasure, a primal side of his Vulcan biology that constantly searches for his mate. T’Pring’s rejection had not stung at the time, but his mind feels the void hers left acutely. Jim, it seems, would have no trouble replacing her.

The realization is almost his undoing. They have not melded, and still he calculates their chances of a successful bond at a higher percentage than he wants to acknowledge. He did not come here for permanence; certainly Jim did not invite him to his temporary quarters with anything other than a brief liaison in mind. It explains his instant attraction, nothing else. Steeling his mind, but unable to force his shields fully into place, he sinks into Jim’s body.

“That’s more like it,” Jim mutters, letting out a sigh as Spock leans over him.

He mouths at Jim’s neck, from the base and up to the soft hairs that smell of some kind of hair product. It is pleasant, and Spock inhales greedily as he noses along Jim’s hairline to the gentle curve of one ear. His right hand leaves Jim’s hip and travels along Jim’s arm instead, exploring the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. Aware that Jim’s patience is lacking, he rolls his hips once, twice.

The encouraging little noises Jim makes in response sets his blood alight. His fingers slide between Jim’s, his other hand moving up to wrap around Jim’s shoulder, bracing his weight as he fucks into him with fervor. He won’t last long – the feedback loop of Jim’s pleasure mingling with his own will ensure that. He keeps his lips on the base of Jim’s neck, mouthing at the smooth skin there, tracing the freckles with his tongue. The urge to meld with Jim keeps growing, the hand on Jim’s shoulder inching inwards, searching for his face instead. He cannot, but he _wants_.

Jim’s moans become increasingly louder, matching the rhythm of Spock’s hips. With each thrust he brushes over Jim’s prostate, having found the correct angle a while ago. The sound of their bodies connecting fills the room, sheets bunching underneath them as Spock bites into the knob at the top of Jim’s spine.

“Ah, _fuck_.”

The curse precedes Jim’s orgasm, his body trembling as Spock picks up the pace. A few hard thrusts and Spock follows after, the pleasure building to unbearable levels before coursing through him unexpectedly. He stills, buried deep inside Jim. The Human is panting heavily below him, skin flushed, a thin sheen of sweat dampening the hairs at the back of his neck. Spock presses into it, breathes in the scent of their lovemaking, evident all over Jim’s skin.

Gently, he slips out of Jim, instantly missing their intimate connection. Jim flops gracelessly onto the bed, rolling onto his side. Spock lies down beside him, following Jim’s tug on his hand. Face to face, Jim’s eyes seem to sparkle with life.

 _Perhaps I did that_ , Spock muses, allowing Jim to lessen the space between them. Their foreheads touch, one of Jim’s legs pushing between Spock’s. It is a different type of intimacy. Spock is not used to it. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he leaves one curled between them, the other hesitantly placed on Jim’s waist.

He cannot ignore the swirl of thought that Jim seems to hurl at him through their skin-on-skin contact. Individual words are indiscernible, but the general gist of it is satisfaction. Jim lifts a hand, drawing a line along Spock’s bent arm with his pointer finger. It curves along his shoulder, up the side of his neck and along the line of his cheekbone. There’s some kind of intent behind it, a significance that Spock is aware of but does not understand.

Jim opens his mouth to speak, and just then, Spock’s communicator chooses to chirp for his attention.

It is too early for check-in. Perhaps the captain was successful in locating the elusive Kirk junior. He extricates himself from Jim’s limbs, climbing over him to grab his uniform pants from the floor. He unclips the communicator, flipping it open before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Spock here,” he says, Jim moving behind him.

“Did you find anything yet?”

It’s Captain Pike, as he suspected. He means to answer, but Jim presses up against him, one leg on each side of his hips. His chest is slightly sticky against Spock’s back, arms wrapping firmly around him.

“Spock?”

Jim’s chin lands on his right shoulder, amusement bleeding through their contact.

“Oh, he found something alright,” Jim says, causing Spock to blink in surprise.

“James Tiberius Kirk,” Pike starts, his tone irritated. “Do you have any _idea_ how much trouble you’re in?”

Glancing back at Jim, Spock finds his soft lips forming a pout. He wishes to kiss it. Jim meets his gaze, the pout morphing into a wide grin.

“Why? Because I kidnapped your first officer?”

“James-“

“Holding him at gunpoint and everything. Aren’t I, Spock?”

“You most certainly are not,” Spock disagrees, finding his voice again.

However, he does not elaborate. He finds it unnecessary to inform the captain of how, exactly, Jim is holding him.

“Whatever kid. I’m beaming your ass onto my ship _right now_ -“

“Captain,” Spock interrupts, unwilling to subject the crew to their current state of undress. “Please allow Jim to gather his belongings first. I will contact you shortly for beam-up.”

He snaps his communicator shut, and makes an attempt to stand. Jim holds him back, easing to the side so that they can see each other properly. There’s an unidentifiable emotion on his face, but Spock only has a moment to decipher it before his lips are claimed. The kiss is hungry, Jim’s fingers tangling in his hair. Spock digs his fingers into Jim’s shoulder blades in turn, a voice in the back of his head informing him that he is deliberately ignoring the captain’s orders.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Jim tells him breathlessly, diving in again to suck on his bottom lip.

Spock frowns, reluctantly pushing Jim away. He keeps his hands on his shoulders, eyes sweeping over Jim’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

“Regardless,” he says, “we must return to the ship.”

Sighing, Jim drops his hands onto his lap and rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like he’ll be less mad if we hurry.”

“If we do not, he may decide to beam us onto the ship without warning.”

“ _Fine_.” Jim stands up, giving Spock a perfect view of his crotch. His mouth quirks up at the corner. “I’m only cooperating on one condition, though.”

“Which is?”

Spock’s raised eyebrow is met with a finger poking at his nose, in a most undignified manner.

“That I get to stay in your quarters the whole trip back to Earth. Oh, I’m definitely appointing you as my permanent babysitter.”

“I believed only toddlers were in need of babysitters.”

Jim rolls his eyes again, bending down to retrieve his shirt. He pulls it on carelessly, pushing Spock’s pants towards him with a foot.

“You think they’ll let me out of sight for even a second the coming months? At least if it’s you it’ll be bearable.”

Spock considers this. He has not yet fully made peace with the fact that his chess-playing stranger with pink-dyed hair is the admiral’s son. Although, this would mean that they do not need to part ways yet. The thought is pleasant enough that he files the rest away for meditation later.

“If that is your wish,” he acquiesces, retrieving his clothes.

He opts to visit the small bathroom first, foregoing a sonic shower but drying himself off as best he can. Jim, for some reason, does not follow his example. When Spock enters the room again, Jim has finished packing his satchel, leaving the bed a mess.

“Alright then, time to face the music,” Jim says, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

“I do not believe we will be greeted by music,” Spock tells him, contacting the ship while Jim fusses with Spock’s clothes and hair, despite Spock already ensuring that he was presentable.

Jim, on the other hand, most definitely does not look presentable in his leather jacket and rumpled shirt. Spock does not inform him of this.

“One more thing,” Jim says as the transporter personnel informs them to stand-by.

He steps into Spock’s personal space, cupping his cheeks and planting a hard kiss to his lips.

“There we go,” he adds, stepping back just as the telltale tingle of transportation rushes through them both.

As expected, the captain awaits them in the transporter room. He takes one look at Jim, then looks at Spock, then does a double take and narrows his eyes at Jim.

“What the hell did you do?” he grunts at Jim, but Jim only hitches his bag higher up on his shoulder and smiles innocently.

Spock, for his part, stands at parade rest and attempts to channel his Vulcan side. He feels a little loose at the edges, as Humans say. He does not regret it. He glances at Jim, and Jim glances back.

“James,” Pike insists, and with a wide grin, Jim slips his hand into Spock’s.

It is hard to tell who’s more shocked – the captain or Spock himself. The contact sends a trail of pleasure up his arm, Jim’s fingers squeezing around his until he can barely bite back a choking noise.

“Oh, you know,” Jim says airily, stepping off the transporter pad and pulling Spock with him. “I thought I’d make nice with your first officer, that’s all.”

It is then that Spock does start to regret things.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this silly little thing!! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr on my [spirk sideblog](https://very-bad-poetry-captain.tumblr.com/) :3


End file.
